


Your Fake Name Is Good Enough For Me

by AdderTwist



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, M/M, Prostitution, Public Blow Jobs, Sad, sad brothers, this isn't stancest by the way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-04-30 03:25:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5148503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdderTwist/pseuds/AdderTwist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanley looks up at Stanford in unfortunate circumstances. A lot of talking ensues.<br/>(This does start with some porn, but it's not particularly happy porn. YMMV )</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Stall With The Triangle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SandyQuinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandyQuinn/gifts).



> I set out to write a PWP, I failed.  
> I failed so hard.
> 
> At this point this is just a little before their 20th birthday.

There was always a new town, and, to be frank, that wasn't always a good thing. He'd been chased out of the last place, in a cloud of intense danger and near-death, owed money and warnings involving scalpels - and he'd had to leave behind his carefully built nestegg.  
  
He was a few inches of scar worse for the wear, but that was to be expected.  
  
There weren't really any advantages to it, except that never seeing a familiar face made the last resort easier.  
  
Ah, yes. The last resort. He ached just thinking about it.  
  
He tried not to think of what his dad would have to say as he skulked into the bathroom. That said, his dad never had anything good to say in the first place, so he guessed it didn't make that much of a difference, but that didn't stop his sureness that this was a shameful way to live. Not that he was going to live in shame these days.  
  
There were dive bars in every town. Usually biker bars had a certain level of... leather interest, and he had a discreet word to the manager as he arrived.  
"I'll give you thirty to work tonight. The rest of the money is your problem to earn, and if you're charging more than seventy we get a cut."  
Stanley nodded, tersely, shook the woman's hand.  
"Where do I work?"  
"Bathroom," she murmured. "The stall with the triangle drawn on the door."  
  
Everyone pretty much understood what it meant to be there, what that particular stall was reserved for. He sat on the lid of the toilet and stared blankly forward. One state was pretty much the same as another: wherever he went this was illegal.  
Still, work was work, and he had an empty gas tank, an empty stomach. An empty wallet. (An empty life.)  
  
The first client was pretty unpleasant, honestly. A tall man, dark eyes and pale skin, rough when he grabbed Stanley's hair first, shaking him a little.  
"Not how this works, guy," he snapped.  
The john released his hair, and his fingers gripped Stanley's jaw solidly, held him in place.  
"What's your price?" he rasped, and Stanley swallowed.  
"Twenty for my mouth. Thirty to get fucked, seventy to fuck me."  
  
The man glowered, tightened his grip until Stanley's jaw was nearly creaking, but he kept his gaze steady on the john, blank, until finally he broke and pulled his hand away, starting to undo his zipper.  
"On your knees."  
"Money upfront, buddy," Stanley responded, but he was already getting into the mood, voice going husky, sliding down to the piss-stained, sticky ground. The smell was awful, but that was to be expected with a bar like this. On the other hand, the john was pulling out his dick, and it was thick and circumcised.  
  
By the time this night was over, Stanley was going to hurt.  
  
Stanley put his hand on the base of the guy's cock, soft at first but gripping enough to guide it into his mouth, looking up, expression soft and sultry as he leaned in. There wasn't much he could do about the overwhelming smell of piss and stagnant water, or what he was sure was a needle wedged into the corner, but the atmosphere was something he could work on. He took the note with one hand, leaning in and letting his tongue trace against the duskier tip of the guy's cock.  
  
The guy tasted like sweat and musk. This part... this part he almost liked.  
  
He wrapped his lips around the tip, and the john - with his warm, calloused hands - cupped his jaw, pressed in a little.  
"No teasing," he rasped, and Stanley flicked his eyes up to look at the john. "I got stood up tonight, I'm not looking for a tease."  
Stanley smiled, lashes lowering a little, heated as he slid his mouth slowly around the thick cock he'd been presented. Saliva was building in his mouth already. It wasn't hard to slip into this role. He was a good conman, but he was a better whore. After all, it was all acting, it was all just a role. He make a little noise in the back of his throat, leaving spit smeared along the shaft as he pulled back a little, and he focused on pressing the flat of his tongue against the glans, exhaling through his nose and moaning lowly.  
The john answered in turn, thrusting shallowly into his mouth, and Stanley wrapped his fingers around the base, stroked a little to add to the sensation of his mouth sliding wet and rhythmic along the shaft. His jaw was clicking a little, already starting to ache, but the guy wasn't going to last, he was already losing pace. Stanley opened his throat up and tried not to gag as the glans pushed thickly into the entrance of his throat, swallowing around it to keep himself from coughing.  
  
If there were some easier way of making money, he'd take it, but there was a certain satisfaction in the stretch of his throat, the heat of a cock resting against his tongue. He pulled back, for a moment, tongue swirling against the tip, and the guy cursed under his breath, trying to shove Stanley's head down again.  
  
"Fuck," he rasped, "I said no teasing, whore."  
  
Stanley laughed muffledly, keeping his lips wrapped around the glans and starting to slide down again obligingly, tongue flattening against the vein along the underside of the thick cock, and he could feel himself tensing a little, in anticipation of the thrust of desperation.  
  
"Fuck," the john groaned again, fucking his way into Stanley's throat, and he coughed, involuntarily, lightheaded as the thrusting stretched his throat open painfully, cut off his air. He swallowed, rhythmic and desperate, and the guy twitched his hips, coming abruptly, down his throat. He clutched the back of Stan's head with both hands, keeping him in place while he fucked Stan's throat, and then finally went still, shuddering.  
  
Stanley didn't even have to swallow.  
  
After a moment the john pulled out wetly, and Stanley gasped for air, coughed a little, and sat back on his haunches, face red, eyes still wet.

"Thanks," the guy managed, roughly, panting, and then zipped up and walked out with no further words.  
Stanley wiped his mouth.

Heh. Easy twenty. Once he was done with tonight, he'd have enough to eat comfortably, to fill the gas tank, to spend time in a hostel and grab a shower.

 

The next john had olive skin, soft eyes, and a massive cock. Stanley grit his teeth, swore internally when the guy mutely offered him the seventy after his spiel, but Stanley shook off the worry. He'd prepped himself earlier, stretched and slick, so he tucked the money away, turned towards the wall, and offered a little sachet of lube.

"Go nuts, guy," he rasped out, and arched his back, offering himself.  
His thighs trembled at the painful press of it, the glans pressing in slowly, with a pop, the shaft thicker again. The man was gentle, but it didn't do much anyway. His cock was too thick, and it hurt, and Stanley pressed his forehead against the tiles, panting out through his teeth. "Oh -" he gritted out, against his will, trying not to clench and failing. There was no doubt, as the guy eased in, that he was going to tear a little. He groaned, hoarse and soft, and closed his eyes, trembles going through him.  
The man leaned in, bit his shoulder, and an abrupt surge of heat shot through the pit of his stomach, soft cock twitching with sluggish interest. The stretch hurt and he ached all the way through, but the right angle and the biting made a great combination. He took a shaky breath, shuddered as his cock twitched again, a spark of pleasure running through him. It wasn't going to get him off, but it made it hurt a little less, or at least, it made the pain less intense. He leaned back into it, grinding his ass against this john's narrow hips, taking it in deeper, and when he opened his eyes, a little triangle with a slitted circle in the centre was staring back at him, drawn crudely on the wall. He fixed his eyes on it, a focal point to keep him calm, and ground his hips back a little harder against the renewed pressure and the familiar stinging pain.

When this john finished, Stanley was lightheaded from lust he wasn't expecting, and he had to close his eyes, breathing hard against the wall while the guy patted his ass and turned to leave.

"Could you pass me a tissue," Stanley rasped, and for the first time the guy spoke, voice soft, halting.  
"Leave it. These men tend - tend to like it."  
Stanley grunted, dropping his head against the wall, against the little triangle. "Alright," he murmured, and didn't stir for a moment. There was cum sticky around his hole but he straightened, pulled up his pants for a moment's respite.

  
The next john was gentle, but also gently choked him, whispered that he didn't need to be quiet. Stanley blinked back tears from the strangling, whined in the back of his throat, and found himself hard now, clenching around the guy involuntarily, the cock stretching him out even though he'd been fucked already. He fixated on the triangle again, tried to catch his breath, and he whined when this one came in him. He could feel it dribbling down his balls now, and it itched. It would get sticky before long, he knew, and he was starting to really hurt, so he shuffled down onto his knees, legs spread, pants still open as his cock twitched. He was actually eager, now, hungry for it - he couldn't stand being fucked anymore yet, but a cock to suck would be great. Stanley wrapped his fingers around his cock, pumped sluggishly while another pair of footsteps approached the stall.

  
"It's twenty for my mouth," he rasped, licking his lips as he lifted his eyes, and a reflection stared back at him.  
With glasses.

"Ley?" Stanley would recognise that voice no matter how much time passed. He snapped his eyes up, mouth open, gone from inviting to horrified. He could feel his mouth dry, and his hand was still wrapped around his dick, still against the soft skin. And Stanford...

Stanford looked... good. He looked like he'd been thriving. His hands were shoved in his pockets and his eyes were downcast, but he did look like he'd been eating, like he'd been getting in the study he wanted. He had a cardigan, and a notebook in his pocket, for fuck's sake. He was clean-shaven and alert and he was standing over Stanley.

Stanley with his half-hard dick still in his hand, with his sweat-musky, unwashed clothes, with cum-stains on his pants and shirt, with his bruised knuckles and his tender, darkened jaw and his lips swollen from cocksucking. Suddenly Stanley felt a lot smaller than he was, and sick to the stomach. He crammed his dick into his pants and zipped up, opening his mouth like he might find words, still tasting the bitterness of cum in the back of his throat, and blinked back tears.

"What in the hell are you doing, Ley?" Stanley gaped. He'd been expecting rage, or disappointment, but Ford just sounded small, younger than he was. He sounded like it was his world that was coming crashing down.

"I'm -" Stanley almost blurted out exactly what he was doing, but instead, knees aching, he climbed to his feet, doing up his pants hastily, hand rising to cover the suck-bruise from the second john's bite. "I'm makin' ends meet, Stanford. It's fine."

"Let me buy you dinner," Stanford pleaded, and Stanley hesitated, glancing back at the triangle.  
"I... agreed to work tonight," he muttered, and then shifted restlessly. "But tomorrow?"  
"Tonight!" Stanford sounded desperate, now, taking one of Stanley's hands in his own, covering it. "Please."  
"...Fine."

Stanford led him out, and away to a diner across town. Stanley thought of the money he had tucked in his sock - a hundred and sixty bucks wasn't too bad, would fill his tank and get him somewhere to stay for one night, but he could have earned at least three times that if he'd stayed til final rounds. Already the anxiety of that was eating at him, but better that anxiety than acknowledging that the first time his brother saw him outside of home was selling himself.

 

They ate steak in silence, Stanley trying to eat slow, to hide the fact that he hadn't had a meal anything like recently enough. It was his will that eventually broke, though.

"Listen," he started, just as Stanford said, "Look," and they both paused, making uncomfortable eye contact.  
Stanley scrubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw and lowered his eyes, reluctantly.

"Look," Stanford started again, quieter. "It's clear you've made some mistakes. You're desperate. It's not that surprising you've turned to doing something disgusting -"

"You were coming to that stall," Stanley snarled back, and suddenly he'd had enough, eyes prickling with tears. Without really meaning to he'd stood up, voice harsh, drawing attention. "You can't call someone's job morally disgusting while you're giving them work, you - stupid -"

"Sssss- simmer down, Ley! I'm sorry, it was a stupid thing to say, please sit down -"  
With all the reliability of a volcano going dormant mid-eruption, Stanley settled his bristling down, sat back down onto the chair.

"It's work," he growled. "Work is work."  
"Yes, but - look, I can give you somewhere to stay."  
For just an instant, Stanley's heart leapt in his throat, going stunned and silent - and then Stanford continued, and Stanley's heart sank back down into his stomach where it belonged. "My roommate is gone for a couple of days, you can use his bed and use the shower before you move on."

"Before I move on," Stanley echoed, and then set into a steak he could no longer taste past the bitterness of sinking back to earth, back to the reminder that Stanford hated him. "Okay." They finished their meal in silence, not looking at one another.


	2. Guaranteed 0 Roaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brothers hang out, talk, and drink coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends the stuff I've pre-written! We'll see how the rest goes, given that I have a vague idea of my aims but no actual fully fleshed-out plot.

Stanford walked with Stanley to his car. Stanley, for his part, drove them to the apartment he was living in, wincing at the pressure of sitting. If he'd still been working he would have been able to ride the wave of hormones spurring him on for hours yet, but he just felt cramped and painful, chafed and sticky and unhappy. Stanford directed him and when they got out, he didn't offer Stanley any help out of the car, just waited, staring into the distance, while Stanley levered himself out of the car, but he led the way up the stairs readily enough, unlocked the door.

"Wow," Stanley murmured, as he stepped in. "This place is so..."  
"Cramped?" Stanford hazarded, as he slipped in to hang up his jacket.  
"Roachless!"  
And for the first time in too long, he heard Stanford laugh, bright and involuntary. His heart soared a little, swelling with the old and desperate love of their inseparable childhood. Nothing could be happier than that noise.  
"Let me make you a roachless coffee," Stanford said, and he was smiling at Stanley like Stanley had hung the sun. Stanley choked up a little, laughed as well.  
"Well, if that's all you've got..."  
Stanford laughed again, quieter, like he was expecting it that time. Stanley wondered to himself, quietly, if he'd even been missed at all: the comedy seemed welcome but there was no hint of remorse, no spark of devotion answering his own. Being the dumb, sweaty shadow had always been enough for him, almost.  
He supposed Stanford had wanted to stand whole and alone in the light, and Stanley couldn't help but resent it - but he still managed a slow, curling smile when Stanford handed him the steaming cup.

They fell into a companionable silence for a while, and Stanley's heart hurt a little, but he said nothing of it. He could enjoy this for now. It wouldn't last, but Stanford rose and crossed the small room, put on music in busy silence. Muffled and sweet, a dusky female voice joined them, quietly, and Stanford moved to the small couch, settling and patting the spot beside himself.

Stanley almost refused, but when had he ever refused Stanford anything? He rose in turn, settled beside Stanford, and cradled his cup.  
"It's cold out," he said, gentled by the music, and looked at the window. There were the beginnings of snow.  
"Maybe I could buy you a coat?"  
Stanford's voice was hesitant, uncertain.  
"I don't want your charity," Stanley responded, staring at the window, but he was sure the lie was audible. It wasn't as if he could afford a proper winter coat. Sucking strangers off in bars' bathrooms only paid so much, and it wasn't much when you weren't old enough to legally get in. Even this work was thin on the ground.  
"Well," Stanford said, hesitating, "I mean. You're probably a little wide for it, but I've got a few winter coats. You could just take one of those."

Stanford glanced sidelong at Stanley, as if checking that this was an acceptable compromise, and Stanley sighed, sipped his coffee, and nodded wordlessly. That - taking something unneeded - was something his dignity could stand.  
They were silent, for a while, looking out the window, when Stanford sniffled, a suspicious little noise. Stanley's eyes swiveled to him.  
Stanford was tearing up, eyes welling and glistening with tears, and Stanley felt briefly faint with panic.  
"Hey - hey, what's wrong?" Putting an arm around Stanford and rubbing his back was something he didn't second-guess until it was already done, and by then it was too late to back out so he kept rubbing, gathering Stanford in closer, as Stanford's posture went from stiff to soothed.  
"It's just," Stanford said, turning his face against Stanley's shoulder, "everything's been so rough, I've missed you, but it's so - I hate the place I ended up, Stanley, the place I got stuck at, it's awful."  
Stanley swallowed the lump in his throat, putting his coffee down so that he could wrap both arms around Stanford.  
"Hey, though, it's okay," he soothed, voice soft, ignoring the distant roar of blood in his ears, the feeling of betrayal. If Stanford needed him, he was there for him, simple as that. "I mean, you're so smart! You'll push through anyway, right? It's just gonna be harder, but when've we ever been scared of things being hard?"  
Stanford sighed, and then nodded against Stanley's shoulder, mumbling softly, "Yeah. I guess we always - face that stuff. I'm just used to having you on my side, you know?"  
"I know," Stanley responded, trying not to sound as distant as he felt. "It's okay. I'll always come if you need me, Sixer."  
"Yeah," Stanford murmurs, his head bowed. "I know."

After a while, Stanford's breath evened out, and Stanley almost thought he was asleep, the way he's relaxed into the contact. It hurt - Stanford was right there, but he missed his brother more than ever, missed...  
Someone caring.

Stanley resolved to take a shower tomorrow, eat some more on Stanford's dime, and leave as quickly as he could. He could pay lip service to being there whenever Stanford needed him, but the fact of the matter was that staying for more than a day or two was risky at best, downright stupid at worst.

"Will you come back for our birthday?" Stanford murmured against his chest, and Stanley startled so hard that he dumped his brother on the floor.  
"Ow!"  
"Jesus - sorry, sorry, I thought you were asleep -"  
"No -" Stanford laughed, rubbing his hip and looking up at Stanley with glittering eyes, "I was just enjoying the body warmth. No heating, you see."

"I guess it's just as well Mom and Dad didn't pay for me to study or whatever," Stanley replied, flashing a crooked grin - perhaps a touch dark - and continuing on, "I mean, if they can't even afford heating for you."  
Stanford looked suddenly uncomfortable, unhappy with the memory, and now his voice was a little chilly, as if the reminder had brought to mind the betrayal.  
"Yes, I suppose you would have been a bit of a drain."

Stanley swallowed, and didn't reply.


	3. Blood isn't that much thicker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A worn-out winter morning, and a conversation over coffee.

Stanford insisted that Stanley shower before climbing into his roommate's bed, so he did, came out dressed in fresh, warm clothes - a thick hooded jacket, a soft shirt, a pair of thicker pants, chunky socks - and climbed into the rumpled bed of the unnamed roommate in silence. There were things that had to be done before he could leave town, but he knew he couldn't linger. Not for much more, anyway.

Stanford pottered around, gathering dishes and cleaning them while Stanley stared at the ceiling, murmuring either to himself or too quietly for Stanley to actually catch it. He didn't take long before he was switching on a bedside lamp, turning off the main light.  
Stanley stared at the diffuse glow.

Did you ever love me, he wanted to ask, but what good would it have been? No answer would have done him any good.

Stanford rolled on his side, smiling a little uncomfortably as he took off his glasses.   
"Goodnight, Lee."  
"Goodnight, Ford," Stanley echoed, closed his eyes. Despite everything, despite feeling grainy with exhaustion, sleep didn't take him straight away. As the red tint of light coming through his eyelids cut out, as he settled in as best he could, his mind was still moving like a bullet through molasses.

Stanford's breath evened out in a snore, and Stanley opened his eyes. In the dull, stormy light of the night sky filtering through the window, he could see his twin, face softened out in rest. He still looked young, untouched by grief or hardship. Stanley wondered if he'd been missed, again, with a bitter, lingering sort of ache, his mind picking at the topic like a scab, looking for a sign. A sign in either direction.

He rolled over, facing away from Stanford, and curled in on himself, shivering under the blanket. He counted the little scratches and stains on the wall, turned his head to count the ones on the ceiling, trying to relax in the grey tired gloom.

 

Morning came to him with a start. He had no memory of being drowsy, but chilly winter light was filtering through the big window and he stirred, yawned.  
Across the room, Stanford was still asleep, twitching and muttering very softly. He'd always been a restless sleeper, since they stopped sleeping in the same bed, but Stanley suspected that Stanford's occasionally raising voice was what had woken him - after a firmly exclaimed 'teal!' startled him.

Stanley stood, carefully, rolling on his feet silently, crept to the door without incident. He wanted to leave before Stanford woke, get his things together and go, safe from the shame of all this.  
Unfortunately for him, cheap housing always had its downfalls; the door groaned and ground as it opened, scraping the floor with what appeared to be a bottom doorstop-lock. Stanley flinched, right as Stanford startled awake.

"What?" Stanford managed, squinting in the early light, glasses off and hair tousled. He seemed only technically awake, not recognising Stanley across the room.  
"What?" Stanley was more defensive, and Stanford sighed, lying back down.

"Come back to bed, Lee," he mumbled, yawning hugely and rolling on his side. Stanley hesitated, for a moment, but it was only a moment. He crossed the room, toeing off his ragged boots, and curled - shabby jacket and all - in Stanford's arms, back to him.  
Stanford made a faint, disgruntled noise. "Why does your hair. So much. Happening."  
Stanley huffed out a laugh, grabbing the blanket and hauling it over himself. Stanford's bed was warm, his blankets thicker, and between that and the clothes, the cold ache was finally starting to creep away from Stanley's bones.

Stanley closed his eyes, slowly relaxed.  
The last time they'd slept in the same bed like this, it was after Stanley had nearly died.  
Nobody in their sleepy beachside town was used to any real cold weather sweeping through, but snow and ice had packed up that year. Really it was nobody's fault. There was a blind corner and a pedestrian crosswalk too close together, there was black ice subtle and glossy on the road, and someone - barely out of his teens, mother riding in the passenger seat - had tried to hit the brakes as his car came hurtling around.  
The car had spun out of control, and Stanley had panicked, shoved Stanford into the snowbank, and met with a hipful of fender.  
He'd gone hurtling back, skidding on the ice - afterwards he found out that, as well as his fractured pelvis and ribs, he had bruising on his spinal sheath, bruising on his kidneys, a concussion, a dislocated knee and a broken wrist.

At the time he'd been mostly worried about the broken bottle of liquor in his backpack, the glass poking up and sticking into his back painfully. There was blood pinkening his view from one eye, and distantly he was aware he was whimpering, but it had been incredibly important that they not get caught with their dad's cheap bourbon.

Once he realised that Stanford was sitting up in the snow, he tried to straighten, tried to beg him to hide the evidence - which was when the pain hit him in a huge and dizzying rush.

He'd woken up with Stanford holding his uninjured hand, squeezing like a vice to keep him in place, and he'd actually found himself smiling up at the ceiling of the hospital, dazed and tired. He didn't say a thing, just squeezed Stanford's hand in return, yawned, and closed his eyes.

Of course Stanford had got rid of the bottle, he thought, and went back to sleep.

In the weeks following, once he could lie on his side, Stanford took to napping behind him - too restless to nap in front of him in case he elbowed Stanley in his still-healing ribs, too fretful to sleep in his own bed. They were sixteen and it was something they hadn't done in years, but Stanley had slept better on those nights than he had in years - or in the years leading up to now. Now, in this little shoebox of an apartment.

He smiled a little, shuffled back against Stanford, and closed his eyes again.

 

When he woke again, Stanford had miraculously extracted himself from the bed and made coffee for the both of them. Stanley sat up with his eyes still closed, only vaguely aware of the bright light of early afternoon pouring through the window.  
"Coffee," he rasped, and made a small grateful noise when the warm cup was pushed into his hands. He sipped at it quietly, eyes still closed, and tried to enjoy this sleepy moment.  
Of course Stanford had made his coffee perfectly. A big splash of cream, a quarter of a teaspoon of sugar. Stanley sighed into it, nearly drifted off again in his contentment.

"You can't do that stuff again."

Moment ruined, Stanley sighed, opening his eyes.

"You can't stop me, Sixer. And even if you could, what're you gonna do? Pay me hourly to not suck dick?"  
Stanford flinched, despite the level tone Stanley used.  
"You know it's not safe, and it's certainly not healthy," he countered, and Stanley didn't have the energy to even roll his eyes.  
"Oh, you're right, maybe I'll go be a secretary instead," Stanley managed a pretty good drawl there, missed the cigarettes he couldn't afford for a moment. "Look, I know you don't want to think about me having sex, and I can respect that, it's pretty gross - " and he held up his hand, "- but this isn't sex. It's work. And it pays pretty good, pays enough for me to keep moving."  
"So it's a lifestyle choice?" Stanford's voice was harsh, and Stanley stared.

Picking his battles, he finished his coffee before he stood.   
"Sixer, you know I love you. But you have absolutely no idea how the world works."  
Stanford fired up straight away, nostrils flaring out, voice vicious, louder. "You're a high-school drop-out who didn't care enough to -"  
"I know!" Stanley snarled, with such force that Stanford immediately shut up.  
He took a breath.

"I know," he tried again, calmer this time, "but it's not as if I can just go back and magically fix it, you know. I made my bed, now I'm stuck lyin' in it, and that means making money fast enough to live outta motels and the car, and to keep moving. I've had plenty of time already to make mistakes."

He straightened, starting to pull his boots on again. "And I'm gonna have to make a few more, I'm sure, but for now? This work isn't a mistake, it's a living."  
"If you go - go whore yourself out again," Stanford managed, stiffly, staring at the wall, "I won't let you back in here. That'll be it."

"Good." Stanley bit out flatly, and slid outside, into the crisp, cool air. He took a deep breath to steady himself, started to walk, and paused at the corner to enjoy the view, the faint peppering of snow on the ground. Slowly, he relaxed, forcing every muscle to unknot, forcing himself to think only of his full stomach and the potential money to be made tonight.

Which was right when a rag was pressed over his mouth, metallic-smelling and cloying. Someone's strong chest was against his back, and he thrashed a little, desperately.

The heavy weight of chloroform dragged him into blackness anyway.


End file.
